“If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
“All of this belongs to that little girl?” As he circled the steamer trunks and wooden boxes piled high near the buckboard, Murdoch Lancer wore the pinched expression of a father failing to comprehend a situation created by one of his children.
From his vantage point in the back of the wagon, Scott studied Kinsey’s leather valise and hatbox menagerie while pondering several descriptive responses, all worthy of stating the obvious but finally rejected for a more direct approach. “Yes.”
“Is Westcott aware he’s marrying into an ungodly amount of bonnets and petticoats?”
“He has a firm grasp on the young lady’s fondness for a good dress shop.”
“Hmm.” The patriarch’s grunt indicated any future sympathy for Seth Westcott drowning in a sea of lace and ribbon would not be offered. “When do you leave?”
“Early morning.” Hint-dropping sarcasm earned a place in the conversation. “If I work through the night I should have the wagon packed in time.”
“Hmm.”
Scott readjusted his hat low to cover a cocked brow. Evidently, there would also be no commiseration for Murdoch Lancer’s oldest son floundering in carpetbags.
The elder’s hand targeted an item which seemed out of place and snatched it up. “A jar of dirt?”
“Oh, that’s not just any dirt.” Scott jumped down from his perch and retrieved the mason jar from his father. “This is fine Lancer dirt destined to be ceremoniously scattered across the Westcott vineyards.”
“So, we’ve had a land pirate living under our roof?”
“It appears so.”
“Hmm.” A smile tickled the corners of the patriarch’s mouth. “Be certain the young lady knows she’s to return and fill her jar with fine Lancer dirt on a regular basis. In fact, tell her it’s an order.”
“Yes sir.”
**********
The evening’s twilight glow of golden salmon and bluish purples still pervaded the air as Scott tied off the last rope securing Kinsey’s luggage which had required rearranging more than once to fit the space the buckboard provided. Spying his cousin on a determined mission to deliver one more hatbox, the baggage wrangler crossed his arms and leaned against tomorrow’s transportation. “That best contain the slice of chocolate cake I passed up to finish roping down this vast array of female necessities.”
“The last serving of cake has been prominently identified as yours.”
“It has?”
“Yes. I licked my finger and wrote a large S in the frosting. Anyone claiming they didn’t see it will be branded as a despicable liar. You can show your appreciation for my quick thinking by putting this with the others.” The hatbox was held at arm’s length to be admired by all.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon.” An eyebrow raised. “It goes.”
“I beg to differ. “An eyebrow countered. “It stays. Our wagon is so overloaded now the wheels have flattened.” Scott’s grin kept in step with Kinsey’s eyes drifting downward to confirm the statement.
Realizing she’d been hoodwinked, a smirk graced the young lady’s face. “Your wit, sir, struggles to be found.”
“Unlike your gullibility.”
“Fine. If there’s no more room, I’ll simply wear it.” Setting the box at her feet, the little cousin lifted its lid and donned the contents.
Scott slowly nodded at the sight of his hat that Kinsey had claimed as her own soon after she’d stepped foot on the ranch. With a misshapen crown and blotches of pink paint from her chicken coop stunt still decorating the brim, the Stetson had little semblance to when Scott first purchased it; for Kinsey, it had become the symbol of her independence.
Plucking the hat off his cousin’s head, Scott returned it to the box and, hoisting himself up on the buckboard, slid the precious cargo under the seat. Sitting, the judge decreed his final verdict. “That’s the last of it. End of discussion.”
“Thank you.”
A hand extended and assisted the young lady to climb aboard for a moment to relax. “You’re most welcome.”
“Not just for the hat….” Kinsey’s sigh brought her head to rest on Scott’s shoulder. “I was so bloody lost in the past, but no longer. Thank you for helping me find me.”
“Little one, it was my pleasure…” A grin ensued. “Most of the time.”
Overhead a streak of sparkling warmth raced across the darkening cool sky. “A shooting star! Quickly Scott! Make a wish!” Silent lips moved in her request to the starlit sky, soon followed by a spoken query. “So? Tell me. What did you wish for?”
“Wait. One doesn’t share their wish if they want it to come true. I’m rather surprised you’re not privy to that important piece of information considering your previous interest in tarot cards and the celestial universe.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course star wishes can be shared. Ptolemy wrote that sometimes the gods got bored and curious and would occasionally peer down on earth. And in so doing, some stars slipped through the gap between the spheres and became visible as falling stars. He further added that the gods were more receptive to wishes. Not once did Ptolemy mention not sharing. Honestly, Scott, I’m rather shocked a well-educated man like yourself is ignorant of this crucial fact regarding the Greek gods and shooting stars.”
“Obviously my Harvard studies fell short in some areas.” Scott laced his fingers behind his neck, leaned back and gazed upward at the diamond-dusted heavens. “Grandfather won’t be happy to learn he didn’t get his money's worth.”
“Well, let’s rectify the oversight. I’ll share first.” A throat cleared for a dramatic reading. “May you and Emily Browning have a lifetime of happiness and undying love for each other. And, oh yes… are blessed with five children.” Kinsey punctuated her desire with a satisfied smile. “Your turn.”
“Right.” Scott continued his scrutiny of the stars. “I wish a certain young lady would stop poking her little freckled nose into my personal affairs. Let’s see what the Greek gods can do with that one.”
Undaunted, the younger cousin clapped her hands together in a breathless revelation. “Scott, I’ve just had the most extraordinary thought regarding Miss Browning!”
“And here it comes: my answer from Mt. Olympus.”
“We’re arriving at the winery two full weeks before the wedding. Wouldn’t it be grand to have Emily there during this time?”
“Hold up. There’s a reason for those two weeks.”
“Staying for several days in an old Stockton hotel room or the beautiful Westcott hacienda: the choice is apparent.”
“Several days is not an option.”
“Seth and Phillip would warmly welcome her.”
“Yes, without question, however -”
“And Uncle Harlan would jump for joy.”
“The man hasn’t jumped for years.”
“Moonlight strolls through the vineyard could certainly provide you with romantic inspiration.”
“My inspiration doesn’t require grapes or the moon.”
“Well, it certainly couldn’t hurt. Trust me.”
“Enough.” Landing boots to ground, Scott’s strides carried him to Kinsey’s side of the buckboard where his stern countenance and offered hand escorted the young lady down to stand front and center.
“You’re mad at me.”
“It depends.” Hands were placed on hips. “Be truthful. Did you write an S in the chocolate frosting?”
Smiling, Kinsey rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
“How unfortunate. Then yes, I’m mad. It means my actual wish wasn’t granted and Johnny has eaten the last slice of cake.” Scott’s thumb jabbed over his shoulder. “Now off to bed. Tomorrow will prove to be long.”
“Fine” Turning to leave, the young lady tossed out one more wish. “At least consider my proposal to have Emily stay at the vineyard.”
“Maybe.”
“Is that a maybe-yes or a maybe-no?”
“It’s a maybe-maybe.”
“I’ll take it.” Kinsey’s hand snatched the delivered answer from the night air and stuck it in an imaginary pocket.
As his little cousin returned to the hacienda, Scott's gaze gave the Greek gods and their shooting stars a final thought. “Maybe-maybe.”